


in the family of things

by sybilius



Category: Il buono il brutto il cattivo | The Good The Bad and The Ugly (1966), The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angel Eyes bullshit, Blondie's godawful dancing, Character Study, Dancing, Equinox celebration, Found Family, Gen, Gwitchin Lore, Hunting, Melancholy fluff, Musical Instruments, Northern aesthetic, Sculpture, Storytelling, Survival, Trust, Vaguely Poor decision making, cannibalism mention, for both fandoms, parental figures, pissing contests, stories, the melancholy fluff tag encapsulates it pretty well I'd say
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-12
Updated: 2018-09-12
Packaged: 2019-07-04 18:49:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15847236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sybilius/pseuds/sybilius
Summary: Tweechik is stitched together with freaks and misfits, each carrying the weight of their own story. But most of them would call themselves human, begrudgingly or otherwise, and part of something like a family.When an Elven half-orc searching for his centuries-missing brother is shot on their borders, all who call the town home do their best to hear out his story.





	1. you do not have to be good (Angel Eyes)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The House that Dripped Blood](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15713244) by [Maelipstick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maelipstick/pseuds/Maelipstick). 



> This fic is really entirely Maelipstick's fault. She took an interest in my cowboys over a year ago now. I took an interest in her Quendi. It was only a matter of time before we asked ourselves "but what if they met up"....
> 
> Yeah, usually these kind of self-indulgent and fun fics don't get written, but I was between projects and wanted a way to get in to Mae's character voice. 
> 
> I'd say that this is definitely more relatable to the GBU-side of its crossover, but that's contingent on the fandom people who actually read my other fics (check out the series "Talking Won't Save You" to understand how Blondie and Angel Eyes got here...), which there are MANY so.....
> 
> Long story short, this fic is an obscure piece of work so if you read it from start to finish I appreciate thoughts always and you have my undying love <3 
> 
> And of course, eternal thanks to my alpha reader Maelipstick. This fic wouldn't exist without you ;)
> 
> The chapter titles and work title are from the poem "Wild Geese" by Mary Oliver. I'll post a copy at the end of the story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For GBU readers: Maedhros' name is pronounced MY-thros. Yeah, blame Tolkien, I know I do.

It would have been just a few days before, thinking on it, that the night was broken by a strange sound echoing in the distance. Beyond the town, filtering through thick glass of the windows and rattling the bones above. Blondie stayed soundly asleep, but it was sufficiently jarring to keep eyes open for several hours afterwards.

A deep, low sound, almost like a reverberation from the earth itself. There was a tone to it almost like music. Music from the mountains, rather than a man.

Then silence again, nothing but the occasional whistle of the wind against the pines.

Had it not seemed so close to a dream, it may have been worth mentioning to Castellan or Sue. But there was no reason to think on it until the late morning of Jordan and Blondie’s third hunt, autumn’s equinox.

The heavy cadence of footsteps back to the town come far sooner than they should. And far faster.

“Angel Eyes! Castellan! Damnit, I need help!”

Blondie’s run cuts a ragged, muddy path into the day-old snowfall, his heavy pack and his hunting companion nowhere to be seen. Where the hell is she? Looks like Sue’s latest kill will have to wait. Blondie barely slows when he makes it to the butcher’s block, eyes wild and hunted. I can’t help the instinctive move towards him.

“Slow down-- what’s happened? Where’s Jordan?”

“Had to leave her there-- someone I didn’t hear in the bush and I shot him. Shit. Shit.”

“Fatal?”

“I don’t know. He seemed. It was his stomach. But he seemed able to talk. I left Jordan with him to make sure he doesn’t pass out,” Blondie’s breathing slows with a hard squeeze to his shoulder. Castellan, the surgeon the man will need soon, is struggling into her coat, boots half-tied as she crosses the snow towards him. Lucky for him she was out taking a call. Some of the town’s residents, those that do their work out of doors, have begun to gather and stare. Best to get to business quickly.

“What’s going on?” she glances sharply back and forth before tending to her laces.

“Stranger shot on the borders accidentally,” seems better to let Blondie breathe, let her know what happened.

“Are they dangerous?”

“I don’t think so,” Blondie cut in, “Ginger. Long hair in some kinda braids. He looked like a lone hunter. Figured Jordan was safe with him, at least with the bullet in him.”

The more pressing question is whether this man is safe with Jordan _,_ _a minimis quoque timendum._ At the very least she can certainly fend for herself.

Castellan straightens, “I’ll prepare the practice. You two bring him, carefully, but quickly.”

Blondie is already retracing his steps towards the forest. So nothing to do except follow. The chill air rasps against exposed flesh, but urgency makes it a thrill rather than a burden. It’s uncommon for strangers to come this far north. The last was Jordan, and she was more than fascinating.

The forest rises in front, the mountains in shadow behind. Blondie slows to a quick, hard walk, the snow making it too difficult to continue running. It’s after a half mile of silent trek among the whispering pines that the two figures become visible, a pack strewn a few feet away. Sure enough, the man lying on the ground has hair vivid as rust.

No. What lies there is far beyond a man.

A slow approach reveals his height, impressive even sprawled on the ground, and his strangely tattered, yet unmistakably pointed ears. His neck is horribly scarred, old wounds that seem like they shouldn’t be possible to survive, and the snow beneath him is dark with blood. Blondie’s bullet seems to have gone deep, just beneath his ribcage. The makeshift bindings are from Blondie’s pack, no doubt administered by the girl who crouches next to him, fascinated, in quiet conversation.

Jordan stands a moment later, her dark eyes flashing. The stranger’s eyes are exposed, which are ink-black and glitter in the partial sunlight. His cheeks are sunken in to something feline-- no, almost demonic. When he grimaces at Blondie, there is an unmistakable glint of fangs.

Blondie, what the _hell_ did you shoot? More importantly, why didn’t you finish the job?

“Everything alright, Jordan?” Blondie breaks the silence, a reminder that staring is unlikely to indicate to the man-creature that he has anything to fear. Though perhaps this will lull him into a false sense of security, exposing weak points. What he’s after. What he’s doing here.

Can admit to some kind of curiosity about that.

“We should be moving him to Tweechik,” Jordan stands, not saying a word about their conversation, but it’s evident from her demeanor that her curiosity is piqued as well.

“Really, you ought to just leave me here,” the man speaks with a hoarse baritone, and the remnants of an accent that's hard to place.

“To die,” Jordan’s voice is flat with disbelief.

“Please, don’t put yourself out on my account. If I rest, in a short while I will be fine, you have my word,” the creature’s ragged ear twitches, weaker perhaps than it was letting on, “Although, if any of you have some water, I would be grateful.”

Blondie immediately rummages in his pack, tossing the leather wineskin to Jordan, who uncaps it to the creature’s nod. He drinks long, but without dropping his guard. No one moves.

“I heal fast, and I would rather -- keep my distance from townships, for, ah,” he raises an eyebrow at the brazen stare at his scars, “reasons you have already picked up on.”

By far the worst of it is that what he says is believable. Even with the blood creeping up his bandages readily.

Blondie throws his pack on his shoulders, shaking his head, “Listen, I've said some stupid stuff when hurt, but you’ve got a shot to the stomach-- I don't know how you're conscious right now but I'm not gonna let you bleed out.”

God, if Blondie keeps going on like this, might have to shoot him, too. But as tempting as it is to leave the man there, the strong possibility of his survival is a threat. Best to keep him within line of sight, and fire.

“It’s certainly my fault, I can’t believe I missed a pair of hunters. Your stealth is impressive,” the man arranges himself in an almost meditative seat, sipping the water, “The stupidity is all mine, though I've certainly done worse.”

“We’re not in the habit of leaving strange men at our borders, hurt or no. Whether you consider yourself a man.”

The creature laughs then, a chilling sound, “Observant,” the smile that follows is almost self-deprecating, despite the fangs.

Haven’t felt anything this close to hatred in years.

“Castellan will look at you-- she’ll want to do it. She’s a great surgeon, you’ll be in the best hands,” Blondie shifts back and forth on his feet, his eyes now darting back and forth from the man’s strange teeth to his missing ear.

“She sounds a very talented healer, and I appreciate her kindness to a stranger but - it is habit of mine to keep my innards to myself. I will be quite alright with some water and rest.”

“If it comes to it, you’re hardly in a position to refuse the help,” a step towards him, exposing the Remington, a habit never lost.

"Do you think I lack for lead?" the man's legs tense, though the exhaustion is clear on his face. Weakness. His scarred lip twists, "I think it fair to warn you I have fought with much worse wounds, and far fewer arms, though perhaps more hands."

When he shifts his weight forward, his right arm surfaces from the snow with -- nothing. He’s missing his right hand. This might yet make him more dangerous. A fraction of a movement-- but Jordan is far quicker, one foot on the bloody snow and the other jabbed in the man’s wound, hard enough for him to grunt.

“Don’t struggle,” she twists her boot almost experimentally, her red lips turning up at the brief flicker in his bottomless eyes. Good girl.

Not quite good enough. The glint of her own knife, the knife given to her, sparkles in the remnants of sunlight, pressed against her leg. He’s quick too. He shakes his head when she realizes, drops the knife.

“If you insist.”

She steps off of him, having brokered a wary truce. Puts out her hand for the knife, which he flips and returns to her. She smiles at Blondie when she turns, offers a smile. _Ad finum fidelius_ \-- but certainly not past it.

“Your body temperature is low. Castellan would want us to be moving you now,” she takes the man’s wrist and tugs it insistently. She isn’t wrong. Blondie steps forward, slings the man’s arm over his shoulder. He’s taller than Blondie, inhumanly so. Blondie jerks his head, needing support on the other side.

It’s maddening how supporting a wounded man manages to be humiliating -- he’s far taller than anyone has any right to be. Jordan is already sighting the trail, checking her knife before slipping it back into her boot as she was taught. She turns back to stare at the stranger.

“Why are you smiling at me,” Jordan’s inflections always lack the sound of a question. Though he towers over her, her gaze never falters.

“Nothing. You remind me of someone.”

“I remind everyone of someone. That’s my advantage,” her boot-prints leave a small red crescent as she leads the way back to Tweechik.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Latin translations:
> 
>  _a minimis quoque timendum_ \- One ought to fear even the tiniest of creatures
> 
>  _Ad finum fidelius_ \- Faithful to the end
> 
> For GBU readers: Maedhros' name is pronounced MY-thros. Yeah, blame Tolkien, I know I do.


	2. tell me about despair, yours (Castellan)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter deals with some medical procedures, and PTSD flashbacks, so be prepared for that. Further language notes at the end. 
> 
> As you can hopefully tell from the chapter titles, this story shifts in perspective among the Tweechik 5+Maedhros. On the off-chance that anyone who is reading this is not one of the people who have read my GBU story, Castellan's backstory with her Master is touched on in more detail in _Sighted crows in a desert of rime_.

The gut-wire is kept sealed after drying, preserving the strength and the cleaning procedure. Castellan checks it once before taking off her heavy jacket, gathering herself from the chaos of Blondie’s arrival.  _ You sooner kill your patient from carelessness rather than mistakes-- let your deaths be intentioned _ . She knows this. She knows. 

Castellan keeps her practice in clean glassware on the shelves that Sue sawed for her shortly after they settled there. The bed linens are pulled tight and the medicines dried from summer’s end lie in wait. The space at least, demands an attentive eye. 

It’s still not always enough to prevent death -- intentioned or no. 

She taps her fingers at the window. It hasn’t started snowing yet, but with the clouds gathering over the mountains, it’s only a matter of time before an autumn flurry will add another few inches of snow to the ground. Maybe more. 

The quick skitter of Jordan’s light feet on the doorstep come first. Then the heavy pine door creaks open. 

Angel Eyes and Blondie usher in the towering man with the oversized and sharpened incisors jutting out the edges of his lips. Castellan doesn’t let it show on her face, but she can’t help but wonder if this is yet another George, a madman to be disposed of. But is that really her business?  _ No, you never did take that intention yourself, did you? _

Still. Even Angel Eyes appears to have something of wariness in his glance. 

“On the bed, shirt off if you could. Lie back.”

Castellan feels the throb of fear in her throat war with the hunger for knowledge in her fingertips.  _ Your hands are not yours, they are of that hunger. _ The man’s coat is soaked with blood. She is a surgeon first and foremost. The battle is useless.  _ You know that the outcome will always be your practice _ . 

Her mind clears, just as the man strips off his shirt and lies down. She steps in front of his dark gaze.

“May I remove the bandages?”

“Please,” he’s polite, at least, and doesn’t stare in the same way that the Master or Angel Eyes would have. She stares, at the countless scars on the man’s chest above the wound. Burn, knife, whip, it seems every weapon has marked him at some point or other.

Her hands work of their own accord, reaching for the metal instruments, examining the clean entry of the wound. By the soaking of the bandages it seems like the bullet hit an artery, but the man betrays no pain. And it isn’t bleeding freely anymore. 

“Intestinal wound. When we bound it,” Jordan answers the question Castellan hasn’t yet asked. 

“Looks shallow,” or at least, when Castellan probes at the edges she can almost catch the metal of the bullet.  _ As if exiting the body, to meet you,  _ “That's. Very strange.” 

Jordan shrugs, shouldering the gun she'd left by the door, “We need meat. No good to heal Maedhros if we can't feed him. And for tonight.” 

She jerks her head at Blondie, who starts and follows her out. The man, Maedhros, Castellan supposes his name is, struggles upwards, propping himself up on the stump of his missing hand. She tries not to let her gaze linger, but can’t help but think the amputation itself must have been horribly inept, based on the scarring patterns. She turns back to the wound at hand, tracing its edges for an idea of length. 

“Not to make presumptions on your practice, but if you're planning to stitch it, I will need to take the bullet out.”

Castellan draws back, shaking her head, “That's too dangerous, even if we can see the bullet, it may be holding an artery in place--”

“If it doesn't come out now it will break through the stitches over time. That’s worse,” he shakes the glove off his good hand, barely wincing as his dirt-crusted fingers graze the edges of the raw, bloodied flesh underneath.  _ Playing with the wound just as you would?  _

His fingers reach inside.

Castellan’s lips part, wanting to scream at him to  _ stop _ , that this would surely kill him, but her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, watching the blood open anew, the dull glint of the bullet beneath so  _ many _ layers of flesh.

“I can,” Angel Eyes’ voice cuts sharply through the silence.  _ Your silence? _ He picks up the forceps on the table, giving her a macabre, if somehow bracing smile, “Get the gut ready.”

“Yes,” Castellan bites her tongue hard, turning away when she fully realizes what has happened. It was too soon to decide the man didn’t remind her, at least in moments, of The Master.  _ No, he reminds you of yourself _ . She spools out the stitch-thread from its casing. 

“You call yourself Maedhros. Strange name,” Angel Eyes pulls back the edge of the wound, and the man tenses, but doesn’t move against him. Castellan reminds herself to focus, threading the needle. 

“It translates to ‘tempered copper’. You can see for yourself why,” he waves his hand to his iron-red braids. 

“Mm,”  Angel Eyes gets purchase with the forceps on the bullet. Maedhros does draw a slight breath in then, but the pain doesn’t quite reach his fathomless black eyes, all pupil. 

The metal makes a dull clink on the porcelain tray. Angel Eyes steps back, watching the stranger hungrily. 

“I did not catch what you are to be called.”

“Certainly no name one can know by sight,” Angel Eyes places the forceps down next to the bullet, making a gesture of deference to Castellan. Castellan hides a smile, having seen Angel Eyes be similarly cryptic to Peter on arrival to Tweechik. He enjoys his games. Maedhros seems not to mind, taking the cup of water that Castellan offers while she soaks the fresh blood from his wound.  

“Your body rejects foreign matter,” she concludes,  _ yes, well done, you are the clever one.  _ Maedhros confirms it with something of a grimace.

“As you have probably guessed by now, my body does not behave like that of men.”

“We’ve had those in Tweechik who did not consider themselves  _ men _ . Delusions,” Angel Eyes makes a show of disinterest, though Castellan can see from the way his eyes dart over the scars carved into Maedhros’ chest that he's not ruling out the possibility, “Dangerous ones.”

“I believe it's mainly Tweechik that has posed a danger to me.”

“Still, this is more useful than a delusion,” Castellan prises open the edges of the bullet hole’s maw, readying the needle, “barring the damage from removing the bullet, the wound seems as if it's closing internally even now.”

“Yes. A blessing and a curse,” Maedhros straightens his chest to allow her a better angle, “For an Elf-- no matter what enters the body, it will come out. No matter what the damage.”

Maedhros doesn't even register the needle entering his body. The skin pulls tight, even as the blood blossoms freely from the absence of the bullet. 

Angel Eyes lets out a skeptical cough, “An Elf. Is that what you would call yours--”

“No,” the response he gives is a little too sharp. He purses his lips over his fangs, glancing to Angel Eyes, “not anymore. But you could say as much about my name. That much is of Elvish origin.” 

Certainly if the English myths spoke of pointed ears, they made no mention of towering height and nor of sharpened teeth. She stares, perhaps a little too long at the scar that cut across his left eye, still leaving the pupil whole, the mark on his eyelid making blinking a strain. Even with the rate he seemed to heal -- that would have been hell.  _ Now he’s staring at you. What does he see? _

“My Master gave me my name,” she blinks, surprised by how quickly the admission comes.  _ It really has gotten easier. _ That thought feels calmer too somehow, “Like a keeper.”

“Is that him? Your...master?” the skepticism in Maedhros’ hoarse voice isn’t hidden. 

“No, not at all. There are no Masters here,” she says it with more steel in her voice than she needs to, “Simply a friend.” 

“An ally,” Angel Eyes tilts his head, watching her work. She laughs in spite of herself. 

“Would you prefer conspirator? Accomplice? No, I'd be yours if you had any say in it.”

“I could settle for collaborator.”

“Oh, that’s generous of you,” she smiles without hiding it then. The practice is easier with Angel Eyes around, paradoxically easier to take ownership of it.  _ So perhaps there is something in Maedhros’ misreading. _

“You’re talkative.” 

“You brought interesting work,” she ties off the last stitch and reaches for the cotton bandages. 

“Mm. I suppose,”Angel Eyes seems distant, bitter even, “Next thing we’ll be believing that the mountains themselves have singing giants in them.”

“I didn’t say I believed--”

“What did you say? About singing in the mountains?” Maedhros sits bolt upright, almost too fast to be safe for the stitches. Then Castellan remembers, blinking at Angel Eyes’ blank, schooled features.  _ You dreamed-- or was that a dream? One that Sue remembers too. _ Sue brushed it off, with that same tension drawn on her forehead that Castellan has long known not to ask about.

“Did you hear it too? I thought -- well, I wasn’t sure it was worth mentioning,” she gives Angel Eyes a questioning glance, but he's still feigning ignorance. 

Maedhros shakes his head, “I had only hoped I was not imagining it. Three nights ago? Just at the peak of evening?”

She nods slowly, fixing her gaze on Angel Eyes. His lips twist with distaste, but he relents, “I heard it. Whatever it was.”

Maedhros exhales sharply, his left hand gripping the bed’s quilt, “There is a chance. It may be my brother.”

“So that is your business here,” Angel Eyes fixes him with an absolutely piercing glance, reminding Castellan that he once made a living  killing men. Maedhros doesn’t recoil, nor make any indication of fear. This should unsettle her, and yet --  _ you know well why you forced yourself to be comfortable around those you should fear. _

“Yes,” he says, looking away after a long silence, “And I intend to return to that without troubling you as soon as I am no longer opposed.”

“Mmm,” Castellan motions him to move his arms, wraps the bandages about his chest, “I can’t advise you go immediately but -- perhaps I can’t advise at all. Still. Will you need food, or rest? At least as long as it’s a day’s journey to the mountains?”

Maedhros grimaces, “Thank you, but I’ve indebted myself enough to you as it is.”

“That doesn’t answer my question,” Castellan blinks at him seriously.  _ He takes medical attention as poorly as Blondie would,  _ “Would it help the bullet would heal? Make your journey safer and faster?”

“In...some respects. I suppose rest for a short time would make up the time with speed.”

“It’s no debt,” Angel Eyes states, studying the bloodletting equipment with a glint in his eye. Maedhros turns in surprise. Angel Eyes shrugs, “Blondie’s bullet that got you shot. Quiet or not-- he’s usually less stupid about what he’s shooting at.”

“The fault was at least partially mine,” Maedhros says mildly.

“For whoever the fault belongs to-- if it will help you to rest, you may sleep here,” Castellan passes him back the light cotton shirt, “Jordan may be young but she will bring back a hunt, or Blondie will. Rest, then eat. Then, I suppose-- look for elves in the mountains.”

“You trust easily,” Maedhros tilts his head at her, not entirely without accusation. She considers that carefully, not replying just yet.  _ Don’t you want a chance to find out what he is? _ And yes, she does. Curiosity always drives her. But that isn’t what trust means, nor is trust something she barters in that way. 

_ No, it’s the way he reminds me. He reminds me of myself. _

“Death is easy to find out here alone. Human or no. You may not know this about Tweechik yet, but the people who turn up here tend to be,” she casts a glance to Angel Eyes, a half-smile forming on her lips, “How did you put it once? Strangely damned. But still -- with only a few exceptions, to be trusted.”

Maedhros’ smile has a strangely damned look about it, she is sure. But she trusts it to be genuine as well, “Thank you, Castellan. And thank you--”

“Angel Eyes.”

Castellan almost catches a flicker of recognition in Maedhros’ gaze-- but it’s gone as soon as Angel puts out his hand -- his right, she notices. If she didn’t know him better she’d call that careless, rather than calculated.

Maedhros doesn’t hesitate to offer the scarred stump where his right hand should be. 


	3. meanwhile, the world goes on (Sue)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is the most heavy on Gwitch'in lore. Again, if anyone is reading this without having read my other GBU works -- it felt like it would be disingenuous not to feature an indigenous character, given the setting and time period. I do my best to research Sue's background properly. Translation of her Gwitch'in words are to follow, as well as a few other references.

The man isn’t sleeping.

He isn’t pretending that well at it either, Sue figures. She can see him shifting on the bed in the practice. Could be they should have put a door on it, for privacy. Could be it’s better that they didn’t.

She shrugs off her heavy coat, placing the wrapped meat on the kitchen countertop. Elf, Castellan called him. Or that’s what he calls himself. Sue can’t help the heavy sigh that comes from her lips. She’d be all right with strangers in town on any other day except this one.

Well, this one and a handful of others.

Castellan looks up from her makeshift practice on the wooden table, the acrid smell of Valerian root pricking at Sue's nose. Sue can’t help but smile at that, though, dropping a kiss on Castellan's cheek.

“ _Zhìt_ for the stranger?”

“Not sure how effective it will be. He really is different from -- “ she tapers off, “well, you've seen him.”

“Yeah. I'd say he's lucky to get shot here, rather than by anyone who would have killed him on sight,” it slips out with bitterness. She knows well the many reasons why strangers, why _strangeness_ , can be dangerous, here where survival is so thin. But today, it’s hard not to resent it.

“They'd have been too noisy-- at least more so than Jordan. I think he’d have heard them,” she brushes the hair out of Sue’s eyes, leaving a slightly oily trace on her forehead. Cas knows the names she doesn't mention, and she tries not to push.

“Sometimes I swear Blondie learns as much from her about hunting as she does from him,” Sue steps away, letting Cas know she isn't looking for a conversation about her family. Not today.

“Everything ready for tonight?”

“Yeah. Peter and I got the honors again. Though you know I’m betting on Jordan to bring in the first caribou next year. Maybe with Blondie, maybe not.”

“You’re certain she’s staying in Tweechik?”

Sue isn’t, but she can’t help but feel a little protective of the girl. Though Sue supposes she herself was only a few years older when she-- when she left home. She takes out a pot, filling it from the bucket of water in the corner.

“Hope so.”

“Do you think she fits here?” it’s a strange question to ask, and Castellan seems to realize it too, “What I mean to say is, do you think she feels connected to staying here?”

“What are you thinking?”

Castellan considers the blade of her knife before adding another pinch of roots to the small clay pot, “I’m aware she’s grateful to Tweechik for taking her in -- grateful to all of us. But I don’t know that Tweechik can give her what she wants.”

Sue releases a handful of _vadzaih zhìi_ into the pot, stirring it carefully, “What do you think that is?”

“Possibly to test the world. Angel Eyes thinks it’s that way. I don’t know. I think she doesn’t want to go back to where she was,” Castellan’s voice, certain and calm, floats over the burble of the water, “She wants the ability to survive anything. On her own, needing no one.”

“That’s crazy, no one survives that way--”

“I know, Sue,” Castellan slips a hand on her shoulder, one on her waist, “I was speaking about Jordan. But, no, I don’t believe that’s possible. Nor that she should want that.”

“Alright. Well. There’s nothing for that. She’ll realize in time,” she tilts her head back, taking in the gently medicinal smell of Castellan’s hair, “So, did you find out what he's after?”

“Maedhros?” the name sounds strange even on Cas’ careful tongue, so close to her ear, “He's looking for his brother. He-- do you remember that sound we heard, three nights ago? From the mountains?”

Sue grips the pot handle harder than she has to, “I remember.”

“If you know anything about that...”

“I know of it.”

Sue only knows old stories. Old stories she doesn’t want to tell, not to strangers. Castellan opens her mouth, but then just fingers Sue’s braid carefully. The one she’d woven for today, yes, but mainly to mark the start of winter to herself.

“I’ll see what he’s after,” she squeezes Cas’ hand once before reaching for the tin cups on the counter. She pours one for her and Cas, then contemplates a third, “Do you think he might want a hot drink?”

“Now that, I couldn’t tell you.”

Sue takes him one anyways, it’s in her nature to. She’s coming with peace in mind, as always. She knocks lightly on the door frame, to which the man sits up with only a slight grimace. She keeps any surprise off her face, even when his colorless eyes turn on her with such a strange focus it turns her blood cold.

She still finds her voice easily enough.

“My name is Sue. I am _shahanh chit_ , a hunter who speaks for the town,” she swallows the words she put together to fit her role. If she were more honest, she would call herself the _dinjii khehkaiʼ,_ but the words go sour even as she thinks them.

“ _Mae govannen._ It is an honor and a pleasure,” the words run off his tongue smooth as water, like no language she has ever heard, “My name is Maedhros, though I have no title to my name other than hunter.”

He offers his left hand, which she shakes, only sparing a quick glance to the stump of his right.

“You hunt on your own?” Sue’s eyebrows raise, though from him -- it’s just as the story--

“No, no. I work for the Afari. Further to the West. I’m here on my own business.”

“Castellan mentioned,” she studies him before asking, “Do you want something to drink?”

He nods once, “I presume this isn’t yet Castellan’s offer of sleeping drugs. Though it’s kind of her to make an attempt.”

“No, this is our own draught against scurvy. Nothing special. Though, it was Castellan’s idea, or both of ours.”

“Thank you,” he takes a draught of the bitter drink without any hesitation. He doesn’t press her with explanations or questions just yet, simply takes in the silence and waits for her to take the lead. Sue takes another sip. He’s a very patient man.

“Castellan tells me you’re interested in the music of the mountains.”

“Does your mother tongue have a word for that?” the question is innocuous, and she can tell he means it politely. Even as the memories twist at her face, forcing her to look away, “I am sorry. I didn’t mean to press.”

So he’s got some kind of empathy, maybe more than the last few strangers who she’s had to deal with. In spite of the day, it puts her at ease, “No it’s -- my _ginjik_ isn’t exactly close to me, anymore. Same with the stories I think you need to hear.”

He pauses, the fangs protruding from his lip, “I don’t need to, if bringing them up is--”

“You’re looking for your brother, yeah?”

“Yes. I am.”

“How long has he been missing?”

His sharp teeth dig in to his lip in a way that makes her almost wince, “This will sound no doubt strange to you.”

“I can tell you’re not the usual stranger in town. Feel like you’ll be less trouble than Blondie and Angel Eyes, when they came, for whatever that’s worth.”

He smirks a little at that, before turning back to somber, “It will be three hundred and ninety-seven years exactly, fourteen days from now.”

Sue nods slowly, compelled to let out a low whistle. Spending too much time with Blondie. She takes a sip of her drink, “So. I’m guessing you’ve been alive--”

“I don’t keep count.”

“I’m sorry,” Sue catches the dullness in his voice. She takes another draught, letting the strangeness settle over her. He’s good at taking silence, taking time. All that time he’s had, she figures, “At the very least -- it’s long enough for the stories of my people to know of him. But you did come because of the songs in the mountains?”

“I did.”

She nods once, the story settling easily into her memory. Best to get it over with. She closes her eyes, “Of the men of the Gwitch'in tribe, one who came into legend was Kyhenjik. He was taller, more powerful than the men of his region. Like you, rather.”

Her grip goes white as she remembers this detail. He doesn’t comment, and shows no recognition of the name or tale, “Kyhenjik was trusted, as far as I know, in his tribe. But those outside would see him dead, those that saw him as an outsider. They named him as a _naa’in,_ or tried to. Kyhenjik would hunt on his own, longer than he needed to. But mainly he hunted with his brothers of the tribe, and would lead them to the _vadzaih_.”

“And it was said, that after the hunts of Kyhenjik, the ones in which he would go alone, the very mountains would sing. Maybe not that day, but in the days to come. People hated him, and they feared him. But they loved him as well. His tribe most of all. But he would never speak of his hunts in the mountains, just bring back a _vadzaih_ or a clutch of muskrat without a word.”

“Over time, a group not from his tribe saw fit to follow him. Of course, Kyhenjik, hearing their steps, called them out of their hiding place and told them not to follow. They fell on him like wolves. He fought like a madman, but there were many. When he died, he left with the words ‘Do not say you have killed me, say you have orphaned me.’ “

A flicker of a grimace passes across Maedhros’ face. Sue pauses, but he says nothing still.

“The mountains sang, and this time it was more than just music. There was a voice. The men who heard it fell to madness, the men who killed Kyhenjik. Only one of their party survived. Before he was put to death to assuage Kyhenjik’s tribe and family, he spoke of a small dark in the mountains, of endless tunnels that made the song come forth. After his death the mountains fell silent, and an uneasy peace came to all the tribes in his absence.”

Sue blinks once, coming back to herself. The story came more easily than she expected. Hell, there was even some lightness in telling it, to someone. Could be that a stranger was easier than someone who might know what it means to her.

“I am guessing this tale goes beyond your lifetime?”

“Yeah. More than one lifetime, I think.”

“That might fit.”

“Your brother?”

“He very well may be your voice in the mountains.”

“The story isn’t mine,” she say it sharply, an old resentment she thought was long iced over rising in her throat, “I’m sorry. That was harsh.”

“I’m sorry to make you tell the story.”

Sue only nods, neither accepting nor fully acknowledging the apology. Still. The privilege of silence between them is nice. She studies his height, wondering if Kyhenjik really was an elf, if that’s what this man was. She’s never seen anything quite like him.

“Are you close with your family? You must be, to come all this way to search for him?”

“By the Valar, no -- well. First, he is the only family still living, if he is alive. And when the rest were, well,” He taps his fingers on his cup. She’s half surprised his nails are normal, if a little uneven, “My brothers and I were loyal to my father in a way that bent reason. And many paid the price for that loyalty. Many that we called kin.”

“I’m sorry -- that you don’t have them anymore, that is.”

Maedhros nods with something of a grimace, “It’s less complicated that most of them are dead. I suspect any surviving members would still want me dead, even thousands of years later.”

“You’ve been alive for--”

“No-- I. Would prefer not to discuss questions I myself have no answers for.”

Sue realizes belatedly it’s the second time she’s tread on this story, but just as she’s about to change the subject, there comes a sharp knock on the door. “Excuse me.”

It’s Jordan, clutching a handful of freshly shot rabbit and muskrat. She peers around Sue’s shoulder, the most animated she’s been in a while. “Is he still here?”

She steps aside, a slight smile playing on her lips. Jordan walks in to the practice door brandishes the rabbit, her half-hungry smile wide, “Worked well. Thanks.”

Maedhros smiles with his teeth, comforting and alarming, “I’ve had many years of experience.”

“Come to the equinox bonfire?” it’s stilted, like she just remembers to phrase it as a question. She glances to Sue, and then back to Maedhros.

“If strangers are welcome,” Maedhros is diplomatic, but it’s clear that it would mean something to Jordan. Sue is surprised that it would mean something to her as well.

“I’d prefer strangers,” she smiles at him, “Helps everyone find something of family here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gwitch'in translations:
> 
>  _Zhìt_ \- Sleep
> 
>  _vadzaih zhìi_ \- Moss, literally translates to "caribou food"
> 
>  _shahanh chit_ \- Mother leader. This is not a title native to the Gwitch'in, but rather, one Sue gave herself. 
> 
> _dinjii khehkaiʼ_ \- Chief. 
> 
> ( Sindarin - _Mae g'ovannen_ \- Well met, a respectful greeting.)
> 
>  _ginjik_ \- Language. 
> 
> _vadzaih_ \- Caribou.
> 
> [The Story of Kyhenjik](https://www.oldcrow.ca/stories.htm#The%20Story%20of%20Kyhenjik) is a true Gwitch'in story, though I've changed it it here since I think of the reality which these elves have come into to be somewhat altered. I encourage interested people to read the original.


	4. no matter how lonely, the world offers itself (Blondie)

It’s always a bit of a surprise how well the crowd fills out in these bonfire nights.

Blondie knows the name of every man and woman in town, all thirty-four of them, plus the stranger Maedhros. He’s seen mobs in the West that are far bigger, hell, he’s seen crowds at hangings that are at least this big. But seeing everyone out of their houses and work, to circle around the huge fire that casts bright light against the snow despite the still present sun--  _ seems bigger than anywhere I’ve lived. More full, anyways. _ With everyone together, the air seems warmer too. 

“We have grown, and the  _ vadzaih _ and the land allow us these gifts,” Sue’s voice tunes back in to Blondie’s wandering thoughts, as she lays a sort of blessing on the caribou she and Peter brought in. The meat is rich, trace amounts of fat left from the carving dripping on to the fire. The skim stretches wide like a banner behind them, marking the turn of the season and the return of the caribou. One of Tweechik's few moments to celebrate.  _ Something we feel like we have. And can keep _ .

Peter stands beside Sue, grinning like an idiot as usual. Blondie remembers the first time he was up there, it’d be about twelve years ago now. He's sure he looked like more of an idiot.  _ Was stiff and scared and probably glared at everyone there.  _ He smiles a little thinking on it.  _ Sue always said the equinox was a time for a change.  _

_ Seems like some things stay the same. _

“As always, we welcome all those of the  _ Naa’in  _ that come to us,” Sue spares a glance to Mae, who towers behind an older couple pointedly avoiding staring, “And God, the  _ vadzaih, _ more so, willing, we will live another winter.  _ Shijyàa _ , let us celebrate, and make ready.” 

Peter lets out something of a whoop, and the crowd dissolves into an excited chatter. Everyone lines up with carved bowls, Lars the older carver carefully slicing the meat directly off of the huge roasted carcass, sweat rolling down his wrinkled face.  _ Looks like there’s plenty, for once _ . Blondie catches Angel Eyes and Jordan in conversation, the girl stealing glances to the caribou. Eventually he waves her off and she eagerly joins the throng. 

“Hey,” Blondie hasn't seen much of Angel for the rest of the day-- if anything the equinox celebration is hardest on the carvers.  _ Takes fast work to gut a caribou in a few hours, _ “looks nice. Big one this year.”

“Not as big as ‘79, but yeah,” Angel lights up his pipe, watching the taming of the fire with mild interest. Jordan reaches the caribou carcass quickly. After some exchange with Lars she takes the knife herself, reaching above the flames to slice off a piece of her own. 

“She likes trying new things, huh?” 

“She does,” Angel’s wicked smile forms around his pipe as he watched Jordan hold up the line to show Lars the knife in her boot, gesturing at the blade, “Learns fast and teaches well, too.” 

“Lucky us having her.”

“Yeah. She's too young and too good for this place.  _ Non est ad astra mollis e terris via _ ,” Angel Eyes blows out the smoke, “She's not ready for it not to be easy. But hell. She could be so much.”

Blondie's memory fumbles for the old translation,  _ not that Angel ever says what he means with that shit.  _ It's about going to the stars, that much he remembers, “Maybe she’ll carve the caribou next year. S’for the stars, well. She was asking about navigation at yesterday's hunt.” 

“Yeah. She can use that,” Angel Eyes taps the pipe. Before Blondie can ask what he means by it, he gestures to the fire, “Let's eat.”

The caribou meat is just as delicious as the smell promises, both crisp and tender in a way that warms Blondie right to the bones. The carcass is picked clean by the time Lars brings out his accordion, Peter on his rawhide drum, Wes and Laura on beat up fiddles.  _ Same old songs, same old dances.  _ Blondie indulges in a quirley, the fragrant tobacco the perfect bookend to the meal. 

Maedhros is up and standing at ease, in rapt conversation with Castellan. She's got the same knot of her eyebrows that she often gets while experimenting with Angel-- but keeps stealing glances over her shoulder. Blondie follows her gaze --  _ ah, shit.  _

Sue is tucked a few feet away from the fire, smoking a quirley of her own, gaze tight and intent on the fire.  _ Wonder what that's about.  _ Blondie has been friends with Sue long enough to know that she smokes alone only when something is weighing heavy on her. Blondie taps his feet against the beat of the cheery music.  _ She's the only one here not having a good time.  _

Without fully knowing what he plans to say, Blondie stands up, giving Angel a clumsy pat on the shoulder, “Back in a minute.”

The bonfire is hotter than he expects, though he should know from how warm he is even sitting so far away. He crosses around the flames, takes a seat on the log next to Sue. 

“Nice speech. Always is.”

“Thank you,” she tilts her head back, half managing a smile, “It's getting closer to the same every year.”

“I only really listen to the sound of it anyways.” 

“Knew it,” she shakes her head, hunching slightly in her seat.  _ She's always so good at talking about things-- maybe she wants to.  _ Blondie knows he isn't very good at that.  _ But hell. She does it for me all the time.  _

“Anything like the one the Gwitch’in does?” 

“No, there are few words there. Mainly music. It's much more beautiful-- I. I couldn't force it to be the same here,” she taps the ash on her knee, “Not that I want that. I don’t.” 

Blondie swallows, wishing he was as good at this as she often is. The fire spits out some sparks, the fiddling floating seamlessly over the crackle, “Yeah, um. You do it great though. I think everyone is having a good time.”

“That's good.”

“Are you?”

“If I did these for me I wouldn't do them at all,” she shook her head, “Never mind that it reminds me of-- of what's lost. I think my father would have said the same, when he used to put together our-- the Gwitchin  _ lanatr'aadal _ .”

“Thanks then. For doing that. Think it's something we all need.”

“Thanks too, Blondie. Good to have you, every year,” she exhales, putting on another smile, but it at least looks a little less strained, “Now go get up and show Jordan how to dance. I think she might want to try.”

Blondie steals a glance around the fire. Sure enough, Jordan is standing just on the outskirts of the cleared snow for a makeshift dance floor. She's fiddling with the edges of her cropped short hair and is expressionless as always, but from the way she watches the couples spin and whoop--  _ Sue is probably on to something. But if she wants to learn…. _

“God above, Sue, you know my dancing is awful.” Worse yet, the music has picked up to something quicker, the violin making Blondie’s head spin with how fast Laura’s fingers are going.

Her smile takes on a mischievous quirk, “You know that’s a point  _ for _ you dancing. She can’t be worse than you are.”

“You're just looking for someone to laugh at.”

“You did come over here to cheer me up, didn't you? Well?”

He throws up his hands.  _ She knows me too well.  _ Jordan is shifting back and forth to the beat on her feet when he approaches, one foot on the cleared square by the bonfire and the other in the muddy snow. She doesn’t smile when he approaches, but her eyes kind of do. 

“You. You know how to dance?” he mumbles. 

“Do you?” she's so skeptical Blondie almost gives it up, but he can feel Sue's eyes at his back and knows he should go through with it.  _ For both of them, really. _

“Not really, but I’ll give it my best shot,” Blondie offers his hand. She takes both with a hint of amusement in her eyes.

“I know one dance.”

“Alright. Show me, I’ll give it a try.”

They step to the edge of the groups of dancers, Jordan now feeling the beat forward with her shoulders, “A quickstep. Okay, weight on your left foot.”

“What?” it’s a bit hard to hear her over the accordion. One of the couples almost bumps into Blondie, whirling in way that makes Blondie dizzy to watch. 

“Weight on your left foot!” she lifts her right and he does the same, “Step to the right. Shift to the left. Cross your right foot in front, one beat, turn.”

The turn is the most graceful part about it-- seamless as when she stalks deer or rabbit. Blondie has seen a few decent dancers and for the most part Jordan is a little heavy on her feet, at least on the dance floor.  _ Not that I can talk. _ He tries to follow her on the other side and almost crosses his feet too far. 

“If you fall over, I do not think I can catch you,” she says it flatly, but the smile is still glittering in her eyes against the firelight. 

“M’fine, just show me that again? Slower?”

“Quarter of the beat then,” Jordan steps forward with Blondie, and he just then realizes that she is, in fact, somewhat following the music.  _ Somehow. Never really got the feel of it. _ He catches Sue’s grin, a real smile, behind the sparks of the fire just as Blondie manages a decent shake at the turn. Unfortunately his grin back sets him off balance, and he stumbles right into a tall figure walking by.

“God above-- sorry, Maedhros.” Blondie hopes he didn’t hit the wound, or whatever is left of it, but Maedhros seems unfazed, even crookedly smiling. 

“Can you dance, Maedhros?” Jordan picks up her step much faster, seamlessly repeating the pattern on either side.

“I’ve never done that step, but,” he studies her for a half a moment, then does an almost-perfect imitation of her movements. 

Blondie looks back and forth, “Uh, can you take it from here?” 

“Please,” Jordan says, and Blondie is already stepping in to the snow before Maedhros can say no.  _ Still, did the job. She’s not scared to dance anymore, now. _ He can’t really feel bad about not being able to follow her step. 

He finds Angel sipping a whiskey while watching the flicker of the Aurora over the mountains, leaning on the outside of the old inn.  _ Well, inn of two rooms, not that they're usually filled.  _

“Thinking about going to the mountains?” Blondie leans against the dry wood beside him. 

“Thinking about when we can head back to the cabin,” Angel crowds him against the wall, running a gloved finger along the inside of his thigh. Blondie tugs him by the collar, half-biting into the kiss just like always. 

He pulls back with a sheepish grin, “M’guessing you weren't watching my trying at dancing for Jordan.”

The comical horror on Angel’s face is almost worth breaking the mood over, “God, what were you thinking? Sue put you up to it?” 

“Yeah, she did. Luckily Maedhros kinda took over.”

Angel drops his hand, lips tight with annoyance, “She’s been speaking with him a lot.”

“Both strangers, I guess,” Blondie should have known by now that Angel wouldn't like him.  _ Anyone who's a threat -- or anyone he can't control.  _

“She’s not a stranger. Not to us.”

“Yeah, but. Weren’t you just saying how she doesn’t really fit here? She’s too good?” 

Angel steps away then, half-glaring at the mountains.  _ He did always say he was a hypocrite. Shouldn’t be surprised _ . He tugs his coat closer, “What’s he got to offer her?”

“I dunno. I dunno anything about him.” 

“Yeah. You don’t,” Angel Eyes glares pointedly at Blondie, but Blondie isn’t really up for taking the bait.  _ He’ll walk off whatever it is he’s thinking. Else I’ll know about it.  _

Blondie does call back before Angel gets too far walking, “See you at the cabin in an hour?”

“Yeah.” And Angel doesn’t hesitate with his reply, though he doesn’t look back, either. Blondie shakes his head, but figures things are probably fine, heading back to the light of the fire for a little bit longer.

The dancing has picked up, if that were even possible, with Maedhros and Jordan doing another quick step that isn’t far off from the one she was trying to teach Blondie.  _ Looks like she’s following him this time, though _ . 

She’s flush-cheeked and bright-eyed, and Sue is tapping her foot to Peter’s drum, sitting a little closer to the celebration. Maedhros peels off, half-laughing and half out of breath at the fiddle’s ending call, passing Jordan off to dance with Warren before the next song begins.  _ Hell, he sure can do a lot after getting shot this morning.  _

“That’s more than I’ve done with respect to dance, in many, many years,” Maedhros settles on the log, a bit of a skip in his breath. 

“Didn’t show. Do you want something to drink?” Blondie offers, “There’s beer and whiskey I can get you.”

“No, not for me -- I’m trying to make a point of avoiding spirits,” Maedhros’ lips twist over his sharp teeth. 

“Could say the same. I’m going to get water though, you want some of that?” Blondie stands up and Maedhros nods gratefully. He brings tin cups filled from the barrel by the fire, the water sweet and cool against the heat of the fire and the party, “Can’t think of a time when I’ve done anything other than stupid shit when drinking.” 

Blondie surprises himself, saying that out loud. At first he figures Maedhros might not have heard it over the fiddle and boot-step. But then he turns his head, the firelight just catching on his sharp cheekbones. It’s then that Blondie notices he has freckles, under and around the scars.  

“I’ve had more than a few such moments. It’s the days that stretch out and run together that I ought to try to avoid. Trading one pain for another. Not wanting to remember feeling something -- you often forget things you want to. Forgetting yourself becomes easier,” he takes a long sip of the water.

“Shit. Yeah,” Blondie’s mind spins in a bit of a daze, but the clench in his gut seems to understand --  _ whatever it is he just said _ . The accordion dies off just then, the fiddle tune taking up something slow and almost swaying. Maedhros doesn’t look at him then, his vivid red hair shadowing his eyes.  _ Maybe I should go. _

Maedhros shakes his head, “Counting reminders where I can.” 

“Yeah. I got a few,” Blondie grimaces, thinking of Angel’s missing finger.  _ No matter what he said-- still my fault that happened, _ “Wish they'd left marks on me rather than. Anyone else.” 

“ _ Rain Dúath. _ ” Maedhros breathes out, like a gasp of pain from a new wound.  _ Or an old one. _

“Uh. What?”

“Sorry. I know what you mean, yes.” 

Thankfully Mae neither asks nor explains, just settles into a somber quiet. Eventually the music shifts to something slower. Blondie has to smile crookedly then, at Sue, swaying just slowly to the drum beats with her head pillowed on Castellan’s shoulder.  _ Knew she could do it. _

Blondie searches the fraying edges of the crowd for Angel’s dark coat, but figures he's gone. When he turns back, Jordan has appeared, staring at Mae with a serious glint in her dark eyes. 

“You're going to the mountains.” 

“I am,” Maedhros gives her a measured look.  _ What's she after?  _ Blondie takes a careful sip.

“I'm going for just a few days. You've heard I'm looking for someone?” 

“Yes. I want to go with you.” 

Blondie almost coughs on his water. _Does Angel know about this?_ _Not that it would matter to him but --_  Maedhros shifts his head consideringly, “Yes.”

“Yes?” she repeats.  _ Not like her to sound unsure like that _ .

“Sit,” he says it almost gently. Blondie glances to the two of them.  _ Yeah, I shouldn’t get in the middle of this.  _ He stands up, knocking a bit of snow off his boots, staring a little at Jordan’s intent gaze. 

“So um. We’ll pick up your hunting when you get back?”

She looks to Maedhros. He nods once, and she’s almost surprised by it, “Yes. We’ll be back--”

“Within the next few days,” Maedhros adds. 

“Um. Good luck tomorrow, then,” Blondie almost misses that Maedhros puts out his left hand to shake. Blondie clumsily switches his right to his left hand.  _ Well. Angel might not think so, but I gotta think this will be good for her. That’s what matters, right? _

As he steps further under the sky now glowing with the whispers of the winter aurora, Blondie remembers what Sue said about change and the equinox. He glances back to see her still dancing, still holding Castellan.  _ That's got to be a good sign too. Whatever the signs mean.  _ His gaze turns to the sky, almost expecting something.  The stars glitter back at him, and Blondie hopes his instincts are right. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gwitch'in and Latin translations:
> 
>  _vadzaih_ \- Caribou.
> 
>  _Shijyàa_ \- my friends.
> 
>  _Non est ad astra mollis e terris via_ \- There is no easy path from the earth to the stars.
> 
>  _lanatr'aadal_ \- Gathering.
> 
>  _Rain Dúath_ \- [Sindarin]. It means roughly 'wandering darkness', and is something of an Avari curse. 
> 
> For mood reference, I imagine the song [Devil and the Danube"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eFhBb5YOFMY) to be the one that Blondie and Jordan (try to) dance to.


	5. calls to you like the wild geese (Jordan)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is more or less the most intense mention of trauma/cannibalism. Also, some animal hunting in a more graphic sense in this chapter. A single Quenya translation to follow.

Apprehension. 

Skin prickling against the cool morning air, breath in my throat, I tug the heavy hide straps of my pack a little tighter before knocking on the door. More nervous than I want to be. I try to keep the nerves in my throat, my features blank. It's early enough that both of them will be home. Only Angel Eyes will be awake. My heartbeat taps up to just below the hunt adrenaline when he opens the door.

“Jordan.” 

Make confidence. I tuck my right hand into my belt, feeling the cold leather. His gaze lingers on the pack, the smell of woodsmoke, tobacco, and blood creeping from the cabin. Almost familiar scents, all of them -- but I don’t want familiar. 

I need to be direct.  

“I'm going to the mountains with Maedhros.” 

He shows surprise in his face or fingers. He tilts his head, “I know. Is this your way of asking permission? I've said you're free to leave. I said you should.”

I glance to the trail that lies in wait. It wouldn’t forgive overlooking details, “You said I should leave alone.” 

His lip curls under his mustache, “You're good at specifics. I've told you that.” 

An acknowledgement. That's all this is, that's all I'm giving him. He leans one hand against the splintered wood of the door frame, a poor show of disinterest. 

“I'm not asking for permission. I'm not leaving either. We will be back tomorrow.”

“If the stranger gets you killed out there, I’ll remember you chose it.”

Yes. There. For all Angel Eyes’ blood and sweet meat manipulations, he never treats me like a child. I can’t help but be grateful for that much. 

“If I have to kill him, I’ll remember that too.” 

His grip on the door frame relaxes by inches. 

“Alright. Be careful plucking out the eyes of any other crows,” Angel Eyes’ respect and cruelty come together. And I want to earn both. In spite of myself. 

“I don't plan to. But yes.” 

“You have your knife?” 

“And my gun,” I take the knife out from my boot, offer it to him. He checks the blade. 

“Alright,” he hands the knife back, “Good luck searching for mountain men.”

On that note, he shuts the door tight. I clench my nails into my palm. It could be acceptance. Angel Eyes rarely lies. 

I don't think he often says exactly what he means either. 

I start on the path, pushing those thoughts to the back of my mind. He’s not on the trail, nor Sue, nor anyone else in this town who wants something different for me. 

Sunlight has started to bleed through the clouds. It will be a safe journey, at least today. The snow on the ground is a few days packed, not high enough for snowshoes. Warm enough to not need to take too much care keeping the gunpowder warm. The town wakes slower than usual. Most would, after a celebration like the one of last night. 

Now, though, is just another day. For most. 

Maedhros waits at the trail head, his pack barely halfway down his back. His coat is latched with a bone and rawhide design I’ve never seen before, covering the wound I suppose has already healed by now. Though it’s warm this morning, his neck is wrapped with a scarf whose brown looks burgundy under his hair. Light travel. For us both. I gesture at the trail.

“I’m ready.”

He nods, and our footsteps make marks. Soft crunch by crunch, maybe towards the trail I came from. I know those mountains well enough, but the memories of finding Tweechik are a haze tainted by hunger. 

Maedhros takes his long strides slowly, so that I can follow. He doesn’t say much, but he watches. Maybe more than any of them do, even Castellan. He doesn’t expect anything. The mountains grow as we approach them, Tweechik little more than a streak on the landscape.

Funny how I want to fill that emptiness with something. Normally I can’t wait for the exchange of words and niceties to be over. 

“Should be at the mountain foot in three hours, at this pace,” I'm not sure why I remember that. It feels true. 

“Making good time.”

“You came a long way, to get to Tweechik?” 

He nods grimly, “A few days journey. It would be over a hundred miles.” 

“Alone?”

“Yes. The Afari, who I hunt for, expect me back within the week. Two at the latest. Not that they'd worry. Gwenynen might. That's it.” 

“Mm,” I haven't considered the idea of someone worrying on a journey like this. Sue would. Castellan -- perhaps. It’s hard to say if Angel Eyes has the capacity for worry. I pause a moment, just to feel the outline of the knife in my boot. 

“Something wrong?”

We’ll be back within days. If that. 

“I’m fine.” 

A few more miles walking. I think over that story he told, by the light and smoke-fragrant cackle of the dying equinox fire. Of a god-- and we agreed that neither of us believed in gods-- who believed his voice to be the most unique among all that lived. Who would have that voice speak for all who lived in the world.

Who wore a crown containing the jewels forged from desire itself. 

Children's stories. But Maedhros didn’t speak of the god for long. No -- we were talking about wanting. Why I wanted to come with him, to walk the path I last dragged myself down. I could only tell him that it was the first thing I’d wanted for a long time, every step of this path familiar in the smell of pine, the cold sink of my feet in the ground. 

Maedhros’ steps are impossibly light on the snow’s surface. Elf. What he was. No less strange than what I am, I suppose. Or what I want. 

“Do you want to tell me how you got to Tweechik?” 

I almost stop at his question. Do I want to tell him? He phrased it deliberately, with no condescension or condolence. A kestrel’s squawk breaks the silence between the trees. The sharp smell of pine sap, must be a recently felled tree. 

“Do you want me to tell you?” 

“Yes,” his dark eyes follow the bird's flight, “But that's less important.”

“You must have heard it from others.” 

“It's not theirs to tell,” he says that just as seriously, reminding me why I was so sure I wanted to take this journey with him, “but if you're worried about shock, I know enough to know what I'm asking you.”

Someone from town must have told him. Blondie, or a hushed word from Castellan, or more than likely gossip from Lars. They know enough. And yet, he still doesn't hesitate. In the space of a few wingbeats I draw my revolver, warm in my jacket, shoot the bird through the neck out of the air. 

“Lunch first.” 

We pick off a few more rabbits while we can. The forest is as gentle as this land gets for anything alive. The mountains aren't. The lands are frequented enough by hunters that we come across the felled pine and the remnants of a month old firepit. 

Once the rabbit is skinned and half the feathers of the kestrel are littering the bottom of my leather bag, I think I’ve found the words I would use. Haven’t told this story since Angel Eyes. He was the first who would hear it without pity. Though he saw too much of himself in it.

I slice a few pieces of the rabbit into the small pan that Sue gave me, listening to the meager amounts of fat sizzle with the lean.

“I’ve walked this trail, I think. Into Tweechik, almost seven months ago,” I can’t be sure. All the sensations, the images are knotted up with the smell of the fast-cooling blood from the kestrel. It’s there. 

“Alone?”

“Then, I was alone,” I stir the meat around, resuming plucking the corpse, “I came up to the mountains with my father.”

There's a twitch in Maedhros’ face that I can easily read as recognition, pain. 

Father. It's funny to think of him as having one.

People must think that about me, too. 

“My father wanted a lot. Taught me a lot. We'd been wandering the coast-lines for years. Easier living. He waited till I was strong enough before heading for the North.” 

I pause, taking off a cooked sliver from the meat, letting the flavor of lean settle on my tongue, “He wasn't strong enough. Neither was I.” 

Maedhros’ eyes narrow. Suspicion. Sadness perhaps? He takes the meat I offer in his bowl, “Do you think you are now?” 

“I don't know,” there was something closer to that wanting we’d spoken of by the equinox fire. I couldn't tell him clearly why I wanted to go on this journey with him. Only that it was very important that I did. 

The story. That I know why I want to tell him. 

“We had one good year. A hard year, but we kept close enough to Fort Yukon to work for what we needed to live if we had to. My father didn't like begging for scraps, he wanted to live apart. Nothing but us and the trail,” I stop, fingering the meat off the bone. This was the same mistake I made before. Speaking too much about what I thought my father wanted, rather than what I knew about myself. Not this time. I glance back to Maedhros’ intent gaze. 

I notice a moment later I’m biting my tongue, an old habit from when I used to speak to my father of what I knew, thought, wanted. 

My father never understood. I'm not sure why I hope anyone will. 

“I thought….I thought there was more for us in Fort Yukon. More to learn and know,” it sounds stupid even as I say it. Why I don't usually talk about it. But I push the words out, too quickly, “I never told him though. That I thought we should stay. I should have.”

“Would he have listened?” 

“He might still be alive. If I had.” 

“You truly believe that would have stopped him? That he-- “ Maedhros stops himself, tapping the stump of his hand on his knee, “never mind. Please, continue.” 

I let out a huff of breath, snapping the small rabbit bones impatiently in my bowl. They crack like the spit of the fire. I knew it was a mistake to put faith in my father. I know that. I didn't tell this story to be patronized. 

“You know how this ends, don't you? We took to the trails, to the mountains and were starved out. The last bullet in my father's gun,” it comes out all at once, spilling out like blood from a wound.

“The gun he put to his head and told me the last hunt he could provide for me.”

No, there is no wound. No pain in saying it. I look up from fiddling with the bones.

Maedhros’ gaze intensifies, but he doesn’t look away, “Did you see him die?”

“He couldn’t do it. His fingers stuck on the trigger, I could just barely see him look up in the scant light of winter,” my tongue almost trips over the words.

It's true. I never told Angel Eyes he had first offered death. I never told anyone.

“He looked at me. I shot him.”

Silence. Save for the slight whistle of winds in the pines. I take another bite of the meat. Should have known being here would remind me of the taste of human lean. Rabbit lean is hardly different, when the meat is thin enough. 

“Would he have shot you?”

I breathe out through my teeth. Something in the pit of my stomach drives my bare fingers into the ice cold snow at my feet,  _ no _ this is  _ not  _ what I wanted -- I should have told it different, why would he  _ ask  _ that -- 

“I--” 

“No,” I cut him off before he can offer any platitudes, “He would have. But he also wanted me to.” 

Confusion flickers across Maedhros’ scarred face, I've mangled my story beyond recognition-- but then he bites his sharp teeth over his lip and says something that I don’t think I’ll ever forget.

“We all want to survive. But we might not think so.” 

Another kestrel calls out from the forest, unseen. The memory of my father’s flinty eyes cuts sharp across my chest. That hurts. 

Yes. This may not be the best way I could have told it but he knew that at least, at last. 

“He wanted release from that,” I shudder, the last thought slipping out before I can stop it, “I  _ never _ want to feel that way.”

I only too late notice the knuckles white on Maedhros’ left hand,  “I hope that you never are made to.” 

“I'm going to make sure of it.” 

Maedhros doesn’t say much else to that -- in fact, my story holds something close to silence for many miles up the mountain, until we camp at nightfall. We find a small cave partway up the bare stone of the mountainside. A large accumulation of boulders helped us climb up a bit faster than I expected. Must have been from a recent rockslide. 

Some of the game we caught over lunch makes for a decent dinner. No one will starve here. 

The sun dips lower much faster around this time of year. It’s not winter yet, but the turn from endless light to dark happens alarmingly quickly. The aurora gives us a little light. A violent light. It seems closer, from this high. 

I’ve almost found something like sleep in my bedroll when the wind picks up and -- it starts. It was so haunting and earthen even miles away in Tweechik, but here, it feels like the music is all around us, the hollow sound working its way off of the cliffsides in all directions. To the eastern desert, to the town we left in the southeast, and echoing from mountain to mountain in the northwest. 

I sit up slowly, knowing that Maedhros hasn’t even taken out his bedroll, if he has one at all. He’s standing up by the fire, the scars in his face taut and drawn. His tattered ear twitches, and his eyes move to places in the cave that are inscrutable to me. 

“Can you tell where it’s coming from? It sounds like everywhere,” I squint in the dim firelight. Maedhros seems utterly comfortable in the cave, though it is approaching pitch-dark. 

“My instincts say above-- but it is also within,” he steps to the right side of my bedroll, motioning in the dark. At the confusion in my eyes, he shakes his head and strikes what must be a match on the tips of his left hand. The flare exposes a small crevasse where if I tilt my head, I can hear the reverberations of the music slipping out of the damp stone. 

“Yes,” I suddenly feel a shiver within me, something old and earthen that resonates with the cold ground beneath me. 

Maedhros is already looking to the path, “Will you be alright alone for a few hours? I want to see if I can scout out where it comes from.”

“In the dark?” waking has made me slow, prone to obvious questions. 

“My eyes do not require much light.” 

I rub the sleep from my eyes, studying what little I can see of the glitter of his dark ones, “Mm. Elf advantages?”

“No. Orcish ones,” the wind shifts just after he says it, the music with it. To something quieter, almost lilting. I know better than to ask him what I am to take from ‘orcish’. 

“I’ll be alright,” there’s little that could happen this far up the mountain. Nothing I couldn’t handle with a knife alone. 

“I know,” he says, almost to himself, “But I’ll still be back soon.”

The quiet rumble in the way he says it matches the music in a peculiar way. I didn’t sleep well when the music came the many nights before, but when I lay my head back down, the music almost blends with my breathing. 

When my eyes open again, we have the light again. Maedhros has a fire going nonetheless, with some fragrant meat sizzling gently over it. I lick my lips as I sit up, eager to start the day with something to eat. 

“Catch a bunting?” I ask when I see the slightly bloodied feathers, neatly piled on the scarf he was wearing the day before. He must have plucked it after he’d shot the bird. I stare at the fine embroidery a moment, wondering how it stays so clean. 

“I did. Did you want the feathers?” 

“Yes. Sue is teaching me to sew. They make for decent linings,” I run my fingers through the slight grease in my hair, “Did you find anything last night? Anyone?”

He nods seriously, “There’s a trail not too far a distance from here -- small, but one that’s been travelled many times before. And I’m relatively certain that who-- whatever is creating the music has followed up that trail.”

“Did you follow it very far last night? What’s it like?” 

“No,” he pushes the barely-eaten meat around with the carved wood spoon he carries, “No, I thought it might keep me longer than the hour.” 

I chew on the bare spot of fat next to the lean of the bird bones. There’s a lie in that somewhere, but there’s truth in it. I glance to the feathers again, thinking of the squares of hide Sue has set aside for when we have enough feathers. Pillows, she thinks I ought to have.

“Would your brother like Tweechik?” it’s an offhand question, and it must seem strange to him, but he recovers.

“I think he would, yes.”

“Do you?”

“Is this, like medical care for a bullet wound, something for which a refusal is not an acceptable answer?” he half-smiles when he says it, but my disappointment must show on my face, “No, that was -- I do like it, yes. Very much."

I’ve already turned back to putting away my bedroll, “Good. That’s good.”

Maedhros starts to say something, but seems to think better of it and stands up instead. The trail awaits, I suppose. We leave the remains of our firepit by the edge of the cave for another pair of travellers to find. 

After about ten minutes walking down the main path, the wind picks up again, and with it, the strange whisper of music. We must be close. The ethereal tune sounds like less of a random walk through different notes from this distance -- or perhaps it’s the sharpness of the daytime. 

“Music outside of the night,” I find a hand hold along the side of the mountain-- the path is getting a few feet more narrow, “A good sign.”

“Mmm. Perhaps,” Maedhros tilts his pointed ear into the wind. He places his feet carefully along the cliff’s edge, closer than I would stand. His fingers find the edge of -- something along the rock I wouldn’t have seen. When I step next to him, I can see a clear path, cut out almost like stairs, but from most angles it would be easy to miss. The way it is carved out of the mountain not only seems like it was crafted, by human or elf-- but the way the carving blends in with the angles of the rock face itself is seamless.

“Good camouflage,” I take the first step up the path. This must mean that he didn’t want to be found. Maedhros follows me after a moment’s hesitation. He trails his hand along the rock, as if listening to the music in the stone itself. His lips pinch tightly over his sharp teeth. 

It occurs to me that my wanting to come on this journey may not have been the only reason he let me follow him. Reciprocity. That’s what my father hated. 

I swallow the uncertainty on my tongue. 

“Do you want to tell me about your brother?”

He stills for a moment, then shakes his head, continuing up the path, “I didn't ask you for your story out of some misplaced desire to tell my own.” 

“Do you want to?” I press him, thinking of how Sue might. She always gives two tries, no more, no less.

He seems like he’s going to shake it off, but then he turns back to me, night-black eyes flickering to the footsteps behind us. 

“I will tell you this much. Maglor and I saw many deeds through together. Some good, but most of our acts were deeply evil, in the name of a greater calling.”

“You’re afraid to see him again?” Understandable. If there was a possibility of seeing my father in the flesh again, I would certainly feel the same way. But Maedhros shakes his head vehemently.

“I could never fear him.  But I did need him. For many things I did. It turns out losing a hand is more tolerable than you would think, but little brothers --” he catches himself, gathering his words for a moment, “You snarled when you believed I would offer you pity; but then. You can pass for someone with no story. My story is written all over my face, in almost every sense of the word. So I turned away from everyone, because that much pity simply cannot be borne.”

He pauses, and I can feel words jumping out of my throat, but his gaze, his scars, his story still holds me quiet.

“My brother Maglor taught me that to be alone is neither healthy, nor in anyone's nature. Nor is it really possible to keep oneself that way.” 

“You’re wrong,” the way I say it is quiet and dangerous, even to my own ears. Just why was it I expected he would be different, when he'd admitted to thinking of me as someone else within minutes of meeting me? I’m just a looking glass to them, never mind that I don’t know  _ what _ to look for--

“No, I--”

I cut him off as he turns around, “I'd rather you be dishonest about why you wanted my story than about the reasons you’re telling yours. Did you really think hearing that would change my mind?”

“Did you think you could hear someone else's story and be safe from seeing yourself in it?” his voice changes from angry to quiet in the space of a syllable. Like a candle being blown out. His lips cross his teeth. 

“No. No I didn't tell that story for you, because you asked, or to change your mind.  I just wanted to put it to words. It changed mine.”

My jaw tightens. Such specifics shouldn't make a difference. And yet. The anger as gone just as soon as it came. 

He walks ahead for a half a mile more down the trail before we come to a sheer cliff face. The end. Or so I would have believed, until his left hand finds another crevasse, and he whispers a word to the rock.

This time, the mountain itself responded, steps sliding out from the sheer stone with a railing to match. I can't help but gape slightly. He shakes his head. 

“Dwarvish work,” he's about to continue, when another lilt of the stonework melody filters from above the stairs. He holds out his hand a moment, eyes searching the air, then takes the steps two at a time. 

I follow. 

At the top of the staircase is another cave-- no, it’s more of a room. A vantage point. The space is airy and open, with the side next to the staircase very recently caved in. The rockslide we’d seen when we first climbed up. Across it is a series of windows cut into stone, the endless peaks stretching out to the blue behind it. 

But at the center is one of the strangest creations I’ve ever seen. Made of wood and stone seared together with a metal that glitters like stars even in the cloudy light. I can’t tell how sound travels through it at all. It’s almost like a sculpture, but without a form to imitate, simply twisting open and closed within itself. When the wind whispers through the chasm, small silver valves open and close, singing voicelessly. 

The space is completely empty. 

Maedhros swallows. I can see the scar on his neck, the one a human couldn’t survive, moving slightly as he does it.

“Then it’s as I expected. This is an _orontióma_ of Maglor’s hand but -- it’s been many years since any living hands have touched this instrument,” he stands very still. Then all at once, he moves towards the shelves cut in to the rock face, finding a thick cloak with a golden cord, throwing it over the instrument.

Silence. 

“We could still look for him. He may still live here -- somewhere near Tweechik,” my voice falters. No. I know as well as Maedhros must that this doesn't look promising. No reason to lie about it. 

“May I use your knife?” Maedhros finishes off a tight knot at the base of the structure in the golden cord. I offer it to him. He saws off the ends of the rope. Threaded in with the gold are a few strands of black that he traces with his left thumb. 

I don't ask. I don't know that I can, now. 

“Let’s go back,” he says it to the instrument, before turning his blank gaze on me again. 

Alone.

I nod and try not to wish I wanted nothing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _orontióma_ \- meaning loosely "mountain-voice", from the Quenya words. 
> 
> This chapter is very devil's in the details. I think it might be my favorite.


	6. over and over announcing your place (Mae)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll warn that I only really allude to the explanation for Mae being in the present-day in this chapter. I may expand on this in a later fic (which...may or may not be Russingon in Renaissance Florence ;) ). But yeah, that wasn't the reason I wrote the fic, this time. It was really about....well, you can probably tell (hopefully) from the way it ends.

Like many such towns before it, sharp with the hunter's eye and blade, stitched tightly as a wool bedroll, but with evenings softened by company and firelight-- Maedhros should have known not to trust Tweechik in return. 

After all these centuries he thought he’d have learned. 

The town rises up from the forest and tundra just as it's beginning to get dark. At least in this moment Maedhros knows to ignore the thought that Jordan is good travel company. Never mind that the way the sparse outdoor fires echo Afari encampments. His bones ache. To continue on past Tweechik with so little rest would almost certainly be damaging. 

But the Afari ask nothing of him but his eyes and his hunt. Nothing more. 

They come in to Tweechik from the northeastern edge. Jordan's pace has slowed, and she’s squinting at the horizon. Maedhros follows her gaze, stopping short in the snow. Two figures, sitting close enough to share warmth, heads tilted back to the sky. 

“Oh. Don't stare too long, I think that's Blondie and Angel Eyes.” 

“What are they doing?” Maedhros keeps his voice neutral, despite the growl raising up in it. Though Jordan may not act like a child, she still is one in many ways. She deserves to feel safe in her home. 

“Stargazing, I think. Blondie likes to,” she says it lightly, hiking up her pack on her back. 

He continues watching them, struggling to choose his words carefully, “Is there a reason you're wary of watching them….stargaze? Or them seeing you?” 

“I saw them kiss once,” she makes a face Maedhros would laugh at, if the shock hadn't hit him first. She drops the playfulness for a moment, “Oh. I guess it's not something you know when you first see them, like Sue and Castellan. But they're not as good at hiding it as they think either. ”

“I see,” he does turn away then, memories crystalizing that are much harder to look away from. The starlight reflected in young, too-bright brown eyes. Fingon kissing him under  _ Wilwarin’s _ wings, a rare clear sky in the Himring winter. 

Fingon, young and beautiful as before his fall, scaling the rooftops of Florence in its renaissance. Fitting. Struggling to pronounce the Italian names for constellations that Maedhros barely knew himself. When, Maedhros thought desperately, when would he return to wander the earth again-- 

No. It would come when it would come. And not before. Thinking on it would have no effect on the march of time. 

“It is surprising,” he manages before continuing on. 

Maedhros had, and for reasons and rumor he considered quite sound, decided Angel Eyes had no capacity in him beyond that of a variant of sadistic curiosity he’d characterize torturers with. Blondie, on the other hand, seemed almost too easy to understand. Too easy, Maedhros thinks, for someone as razor-minded as Angel Eyes. 

Still, one could call Fingon an unusual match to him, in some ways -- Maedhros bites the inside of his cheek with his sharp teeth. That was a path of thought not to follow again. 

“That’s where I’m staying.”

Maedhros continues on for a few steps before realizing she’s no longer beside him. He turns back, she’s studying him with a tilt of her head. Sue and Castellan’s home. She was almost as much a stranger in town as he was, or somewhere between. 

“Is everything all right?” the words, and the question, sound clumsy when she says them. As if she means well, but she’s never known how to  _ mean _ them. 

That’s for the better, Maedhros thinks. Easier. 

“Nothing. Nothing, I should just be returning to the Afari. As soon as I can.” 

“People waiting for you,” someone less accustomed to manipulation than Maedhros may have found that subtle. But she’s too young to make it sound casual. 

“No, not --” he finishes on the thought, “I made it clear I should return in time, and I should make good on that.”

She drops the pretense, rather than the subject, “I still think you should stay here. Search for him.” 

“And you are quite eager to change my mind despite my conviction to do the opposite,” Maedhros snaps before his sense catches up with his tongue. He curses himself internally. By the Darkness, she's only a child.

But she doesn’t flinch, nor seem to take any offence at his words. She simply purses her lips tightly, then says with the same unpracticed tripping over the words, “I am sorry. About your brother.”

She takes it, Maedhros thinks, with far more grace and detachment than she has any right to. He could call that her real advantage, if it did not also seem like the shadow of a curse. The way she mourned her father, if at all, seemed almost cauterized. 

“I should have expected it. I did,” Maedhros admits, even when he'd left the Afari he was prepared for the worst, “At least now I know he'd lived here once.” 

That he’d lived. Maedhros tries to take that as a victory. Jordan stares at him pointedly a beat longer before nodding once, “Don't leave without saying goodbye.” 

“Mm,” he turns back to the path. Best not to make promises he can't keep. 

At the inn and saloon, there are still more than a few locals out chatting or playing cards by the fires at either end of the small space. Almost all of them turn and stare when he enters, a few of them making the attempt to try not to. Maedhros only acknowledges the innkeeper with a brief glance, eager to retreat to his room and take what little rest he needs. 

“Nothing on the search, then?” 

He stops short by the stairs up to the rooms. Castellan. With a spread of what he recognizes as solitaire, both black aces out, one up to ten, but with long rows of stacked cards beneath. He grimaces.

“Have you been waiting long?” he takes a seat across from her. Can he do any less? She sets down another card, seeming content, for now, to not press about the search. 

“Sometimes work takes patience. I brought you something that may help you sleep. That...took longer than I anticipated, and for that, I apologize. A little more time to wait was less important,” she pushes a sealed glass vial across the table to Maedhros. Ah. 

“With luck, the journey has tired me enough,” he examines the vial, distantly aware that he’s making something of a show of it. But she has been patient, and has laboured long. 

“If you take it now, you will...likely sleep for at least a few hours. If it has any effect it will be in in...half an hour, for someone of your height. I can’t be sure it will work, but I would appreciate any observations you have,” she eyes him carefully, a question in her eyes. Maedhros clenches his teeth. He is not sure he can report on their journey, not now. 

“Will you take your rest?” she asks gently, surprising him.

“Yes, I -- I have a long journey returning, tomorrow.”

She sits back in her chair, flipping over another card, “I expect so.”

Maedhros relaxes by bare inches. He hadn’t realized just how much he did not want to repeat the conversation with Jordan. 

Her eyes flicker to the vial expectantly. She expects him to take it now -- and Maedhros is for once, too tired to refuse. He uncorks it without complaint, takes the entire bitter drink in one swig. It goes down like ash and earthen residue. 

“Thank you,” he manages, before standing to full height. 

“No, thank you. May I come by in the morning to get your diagnosis?”

“Yes,” this is comparatively easier to promise, “I was hoping to leave just after sunrise, if that suits you.”

“It does,” she shifts a stack of cards over, flipping the ace of diamonds at last. Maedhros manages a thin smile before he heads back up the stairs. 

He’s got enough nervous energy left in him to light the stove in the corner of the room. It’s earlier evening than when he returned from the equinox bonfire. He braces his hand on the wood of the bed frame, noticing details that he hadn’t caught before. It’s a bit off kilter, chips and marks on the bedposts. Some kind of fight that happened here. 

If anything, it makes it easier to collapse down on the bed with one eye open. Maedhros is accustomed to sleeping in places that aren’t quite safe. Sleep being relative -- rest would be more accurate to what he did.    


He turns over, wondering if Maglor still has nightmares about the Sirion Havens. He always seemed paler when he’d visited Himring, but he’d adapted to war far, far better than Maedhros could have possibly expected. But it was not until the curse of the  Ñ oldor had truly come to him that he spent most of his days with violet ghosts under his eyes. 

The wood in the stove crackles gently, warmth making its way into the room. Maedhros wonders if Maglor is sleeping, wherever he may be now. True, it would be of greater sense to accept he was dead. Accept that his last song had killed him. The miraculous power that only the Valar possessed-- a lament in his own voice, so beautiful it bent reality itself, Maedhros with it -- 

Maedhros still remembered the song. It was so simple, compared his intricate compositions on instruments, many of which he would carve himself. A reedy, pure tone, in a few syllables without language, but were somehow resonantly Quenya. Somehow even more deeply  _ Fëanorian. _

Whenever Maedhros recalled it, he felt strongly that Maglor was alive.  _ Somewhere. _ At times he thought it was madness -- but now he’s more sure than he’s ever been. Sure that Maglor had wandered down from these lands, making unlikely allies with a gentle whistle or hum. Sure that his steps had carried him far, far away from the icy winter, to warmer, steeper mountains, where waves lapped along gentle coastlines…

Maedhros blinks his eyes open. The light has changed. Huh. He scans his body mentally, feeling the weight of yesterday’s failure clenching his chest.  Part of him wants to go back to sleep, despite the fact that he’s had more than enough rest. 

He forces himself upright, searching his bag for the leather and parchment notebook he always has with him. If he isn't seeing through the end of Castellan's experiments, he can at least give her the observations she asked for. 

While light filters into the room he pens specific notes on his physical state, and the general shape of the dreams induced by the tincture. Mulling on those details is to be avoided, and it will be difficult for her to put into context what a dream involving Varda playing Maglor’s  _ orontióma _ , the music turning the stars to labyrinths in the sky. 

But could the path to Maglor, wherever he may be, still lie near Tweechik? Maedhros ceases his writing, glancing out the window at the soft orange spilling out over the white snow. He needs to leave. He should  _ want _ to leave, still. 

A sharp knock at the door jars him from that errant thought. 

“I have an account, nearly complete--” he stops short at who is at the door. Angel Eyes, standing at least at a non-threatening distance and fixing him with a questioning look. 

“Castellan sent me.”

Maedhros tilts his head. He’s gifted at detecting the nuance of a lie, but Angel Eyes’ demeanor has no tells. 

“Why?”

Angel Eyes shrugs, “Up all night working. Lars caught something. He's been coughing too much to sleep.”

“Mm.” That much isn’t a lie, but Maedhros is certain he has a motive beyond the favour to Castellan. Maedhros steps aside, “I am writing a report that you can deliver to her.”

Angel Eyes’ lips twist with distaste, but he enters without comment, accepting his role as messenger. Maedhros rummages in his bag for an old candle to light. It is far too dark in the room for humans to see much, though he places the candle at a distance from the account he’s written. Angel Eyes wanders the room with a degree of familiarity as Maedhros adds his final observations. 

“You. Seemed like you knew of my name when I gave it to you,” Angel Eyes raises his brow. 

Ah. Maedhros should have expected that at least one reason for coming would be  _ himself. _ Maedhros folds the notes several times, crossing the room to bring over the candle. 

“I was involved in an Afari contingent of the Civil War prior to making my way here. When seeking intelligence I had a man ask me once if I was the one who they called 'Angel Eyes’,” Maedhros drips some of the foul-smelling tallow on the makeshift envelope, sealing it with a finger-print, “He seemed…distinctly relieved when I admitted that was not the case.”

Angel Eyes says nothing, just smiles with a curl to his lip that makes Maedhros want to shoot him then and there. Men who take pride in their ability to inspire terror, for god-knows what reason, should not be toyed with, given chances, or suffered to live. 

A beat of silence is broken by the distant shifting of snow on the roof. Maedhros reins in his errant thoughts while keeping his face blank. Sue, Castellan, even perhaps Blondie he’d come to have some faith in. But some part of Tweechik’s story was etched with this killer’s creed. Was that not reason enough to leave it behind?

“Have you been travelling with him long? Blondie, that is,” Maedhros derives a dark satisfaction at seeing Angel Eyes’ cool gaze falter.

“It’d be about ten years,” he says it offhand, watching Maedhros from the corner of his eye, “Is that a small number, for your kind?”

Oh the uneasy deprecation in that word, Maedhros thinks, he’s come to speak about this, of course. Of course someone who would bother to take a name of infamy and follow its story with such craven interest would have fantasies of immortality. 

“Barely a heartbeat,” Maedhros knows he shouldn't goad him, shouldn't play in to this. He should give him the notes and leave. But where would that leave Tweechik? What reason had he to trust this man with Jordan?

“Then it must be many years that you go without partnership.”

Maedhros can hear the echo of his own deceptions in Angel Eyes’ shift of tone. He's looking for something he can use. 

What the hell difference will honesty make, then? 

“My lover has been dead for one hundred and fifty years, now,” Maedhros studies the way skepticism and jealousy war in Angel Eyes’ face, so he adds, “At one point we had nearly a thousand years together.” 

Angel Eyes shrugs, a mask of calloused indifference, “Time devours all things, and death making them equal.” 

Maedhros has heard something like that before, under different words. He's already shaking his head, now too morbidly curious to stop, “He’s returned before. We had just barely a century then, before he got his fool ass killed defending dragons of all things.”

“Returned--?”

“Elves that are great in the valiance of their deeds have that privilege, following their penance,” 

Angel Eyes snorts, “You don't think I really believe any of this, do you?” 

“No, I don't. Why do you think I'm telling you this?” he leaves his note at the beat-up corner table, pulls on his coat and shoulders his pack, “What would you do with that knowledge if it was? Wish those years upon yourself?” 

“You must think me an idiot if you believe that.”

I do, Maedhros thinks, a clever, dangerous idiot. But he says nothing to that, just offers the note. Angel Eyes takes it, lips drawn tight under his mustache. Maedhros should feel glad he's managed to drag some silence from him. But instead it's hollowness he swallows. Angel Eyes starts towards the door, glancing out the window in the direction of where Maedhros saw him last night. 

“Jordan trusts you a great deal more than that,” Maedhros cannot,  _ will _ not let him go without this. Angel Eyes stop shorts with his back to the door.

“Jordan doesn’t trust. She has an understanding of what it would take to disarm me, and a desire to learn what I can teach her,” there’s a dangerous evenness to his voice, “When that is complete, she will leave, I am sure.”

“I don’t think she wants to,” it’s only after Maedhros has said it that he sees Angel Eyes shoulders relax, his fingers slipping on the brass doorknob. Oh. 

Maedhros shouldn’t be disappointed to see some form of love, twisted and selfish, in the wary, almost disbelieving glance that Angel Eyes spares him. It’s another reason to do what you know you must, he tells himself. 

“Not yet, no.”

“But you have time,” Maedhros’ voice sounds distant to himself, “In truth, there gets to be little difference between a decade and a millennium. If you hold to it fast.”

Angel Eyes opens his mouth like he could say something, and then shuts it quickly, nearly slamming the door as he leaves. Maedhros blinks. 

This truly did not go the way he expected it to. 

He’s still considering it when he shoulders his pack and heads out the door to the clearing day. The balance of Tweechik is perhaps more delicate than he could have guessed. Almost, and he is surprised that this thought comes without bitterness, like that of his own family. The volatile House of F ëanor. 

“So you were just going to go.”

Maedhros almost flinches, but he knows who to expect. Jordan slips out from behind a pine, blanl-faced but-- with amusement, rather than sadness in her eyes. 

“I did not intend to but-- I likely would have left without noticing it. I am lucky you anticipated me, and...I am glad to see you.”

Her smile at her own cleverness is so bright in his eyes that his heart clenches. The chances for seeing her grow will be so little if I go, Maedhros is unable to stop himself thinking. As if on cue, she lets the smile drop off her place.

“So you really have to go.”

“It's not my place, here. Nor do I want to make one of my own -- not now,” Maedhros knows this, has to say it though he can see the uncertainty reflected in her own downward glance. The voiceless wind holds the silence between them a moment. He doesn't move. 

“If you wish to come with me, you are welcome,” it's a selfish offer and he knows it, perhaps she does too. But she considers it, glancing back, and then to him. 

“I want to make my place here. For now.”

“I'm very glad of that,” Maedhros means it, though his voice sounds hoarse even to himself,” _ Merin sa haryalye alasse, Cuio nin mellon _ .”

The Sindarin is less clumsy on his tongue than the Quenya. Jordan furrows her brow, but the smile is back in her eyes, “Good luck, is what I hope that means. I hope you find -- him and someplace else, someday.”

“Thank you.” 

He only turns back once, after he's been down the path long enough to need to pull his jacket up against the cold. By that time she's long returned to the distant log houses and their smoking chimneys. 

It's then he takes his compass out. He's travelling south, rather than west to the Afari encampment. 

South, where the winds through the  _ orontióma _ were blowing. From the north to the South. 

Maedhros stays the course.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _orontióma_ \- Quenya, meaning mountain-voice. Referring to Maglor's instrument.
> 
>  _Merin sa haryalye alasse, Cuio nin mellon_ \- the first part is Quenya, meaning "I wish that you shall possess joy." The second is Sindarin, meaning "Live, and be to me a friend".

**Author's Note:**

>  **Wild Geese**  
>  by Mary Oliver
> 
> You do not have to be good.  
> You do not have to walk on your knees  
> for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.  
> You only have to let the soft animal of your body  
> love what it loves.  
> Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.  
> Meanwhile the world goes on.  
> Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain  
> are moving across the landscapes,  
> over the prairies and the deep trees,  
> the mountains and the rivers.  
> Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,  
> are heading home again.  
> Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,  
> the world offers itself to your imagination,  
> calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting --  
> over and over announcing your place  
> in the family of things.
> 
> *
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this <3 and as always, if you came by to read this, I adore hearing feedback on the work.


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